


A Serpentine Course

by Foophile



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foophile/pseuds/Foophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The official report was that Brad had almost stepped on a landmine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Serpentine Course

**Author's Note:**

> Generation Kill and its characters belong to HBO. Fic is based solely on the fictional characters therein.

Other than the fundamental purpose of a bomb to explode, there was no reason for the bomb in the Iraqi garden to do so. After all, it had survived the initial impact and had been lying there, lodged in Baghdad soil, long before Brad Colbert had come along. Yet, as everything else had since Brad had arrived to this shithole calling itself a country, the bomb and his well meaning intentions blew up in his face. And injured his LT, who with superman reflexes tackled Brad to the ground just as the ordinance fulfilled its destructive destiny.

“Fuck this Robin Hood bullshit!”

Ray Person had made his thoughts on this matter rather clear.

“We didn’t come all this way to get blown up by shit we aren’t even supposed to be fucking with Brad! We are trained fucking killing machines, not Mother Teresa bitches that come to make everything okay for the poor, gun wielding haggis. Should have told that motherfucker to get an over-priced American contractor like his rich ass neighbors.”

His head throbbing from the force of the explosion and landing on the hard soil, Brad wasn’t much for responding to Ray’s rant. Doc Bryan had given him a patch of gauze for the gash in his eyebrow Lt. Fick’s helmet had caused when he’d landed on him.

The official report was that Brad had almost stepped on a landmine. No one was going to attest to whole stupid truth and as they were currently leaving Baghdad for a POG camp, there was little need for it.

Brad just hoped the Reporter wrote the lie. The last thing he needed was for the General to read about his blunder in fucking Rolling Stone magazine.

Ray was still raving as the sun went down.

“And you’re lucky the LT was there to knock your Viking ass to the ground. I mean, shit, he came outta nowhere. One second he’s talking about you getting your ass blown to hell and the next you almost do. Must have heard the tick or something. I’d never expect it of any other officer but Fick, Brad, man, he saved your life.”

That was the worst, Brad thinks. Nate was knocked hard from behind into Brad and has a mild concussion. Just after the blast Nate’s body was so heavy and lax that at first Brad almost freaked and thought the man was dead. It took entirely too long for Brad to wake him, and the image of Nate’s vacant blue eyes when he opened them will follow Brad into his nightmares.

Doc says Nate is fine, there’s no actual damage aside from some scratches and bruising caused by the flying rubble but it’s enough. Brad feels as if he’s watching that Iraqi boy die all over again. He wants to say that there’s nothing he could have done to prevent what happened but Brad can see the moment he should have turned away -

The first time his commanding officer gave him the order to leave well enough alone.

“Jesus, Ray, give it a fucking rest already!”

Brad and Ray turn in the bouncing humvee to the Reporter who looks partly as if he didn’t mean to say that out loud and slightly indignant. Ray mutters something under his breath, turning back to the road, and Brad meets the Reporter’s eyes with veiled gratitude.

Trombley’s watching Brad when he goes to turn back to the front and as much as Brad doesn’t want to admit it, the kid looks painfully sympathetic – or as sympathetic as Trombley can look. And that just about does it for Brad.

He settles back in his seat, nauseated, thinking that as much as Trombley’s fucked up, he’s never fucked with one of their own, never endangered a fellow Marine.

Brad has to talk to Nate.  
_____________

It's night before Brad has a moment to himself. Until then he doesn’t even have much time to think as Ray’s stony silence only lasted minutes before he’d moved onto another topic with the alacrity of a swarming gnat.

An hour in Al Diwaniyah, Ray shuts up and bunks down along with Walt, exclaiming his joy at having an actual mattress again. The Reporter wanders off towards Poke’s humvee and Trombley’s already sleeping in the back when Brad catches his first glance of Nate’s hurried gait leaving command.

Brad’s out of the humvee, his heart pounding, before he has the chance to think twice. The LT’s face has been wiped clean of the dirt but tiny scratches mar his smooth skin. Brad barely suppresses the urge to touch the worst of it, a cluster on his chin that are red and swollen.

Instead he matches step with Nate and asks, “Sir are you okay?”

Nate throws him a mirthless grin. “Of course. I just turned in my report to Godfather.”

“Yes sir,” Brad says, hoping that Nate’s not going to tell him that they thought it was full of shit. Which it was.

Nate’s smile is tiny. He slows to a standstill at the edge of the camp, the familiar dunes of the desert empty behind him. Brad thinks they’ve blown up a lot of the small villages between here and the next town already. “He said that commendations might be in order. I told him not to trouble himself. Think there will be more than enough faulty commendations by the time this is over.”

Brad’s mouth is sour with regret. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be-,”

“No, let me finish.” Brad interrupts. He takes a breath so deep that Nate lifts an inquiring eyebrow. “I should have followed your order the first time, right away. If I’d been out of that hole earlier then maybe the bomb wouldn’t have gone off.”

Nate shakes his head and cuts Brad off before he can keep up the self-castigation.

“Or it would have gone off sooner and taken a limb. Or maybe, if I’d allowed you to destroy that ordinance, the blast would have been larger than expected and taken us all out. Brad, I’d think after what we’ve faced here you’ve figured out that no one can predict what will or won’t happen.”

“I understand that but just last night you spoke about bringing us home intact and I- ,” Brad licks dry lips. “I jeopardized that sir.”

Nate looks away into the darkness. He touches the scratches on his chin, grimacing as if he’d forgotten they were there. “If you think that I’m going to judge you for wanting to do something to help these people, you’re going to be waiting a while. I know how you feel and I’m just as frustrated as you are.”

“Right,” says Brad, thinking that Nate doesn’t really know just how frustrated he really is. Brad can’t even put a finger on it himself - a nervous, sickening energy just under the surface of his skin that feels as if it’s been building since they set down in Iraq. It’s more abrasive than ever now that he’s fucked up; acidic, like heartburn that won’t go away even after a pack of Tums.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by Nate’s light touch on his arm.

“Hey, are _you_ alright?” Nate steps closer as if he needs to speak softly despite the absence of wandering men. “I know you feel guilty but it could have happened to any one of us. It probably should have already.”

“Good job jinxing us.” Brad manages a smile and Nate returns it.

“Well from what I’ve heard you’ve already pissed off God. Can’t get much worse.”

“He said before lightning struck them down,” Brad intones. He’s not feeling much better but he’s getting over and making do, just like a good Marine.

Nate smacks Brad on the shoulder, resting his forearm there and putting just a little of his weight on him. “We can take on a little shitty lightning.”

Brad nods but doesn’t speak. He props Nate up, leaning so that his LT can do the same. They’re both far away from the fighting but Brad imagines that he can still hear the mortars falling. The explosions have been all they’ve heard for weeks and he’s sure he’ll hear them when he’s back in the States, as far away from the violence and destruction of the war as possible.

“You’re going to have a hell of shiner.”

Brad looks over and catches Nate staring at his face. His right eyelid, bruised from the fall but not as bad as the cut above it, has been swelling to the point that he feels like a finger is pushing his eye closed.

He knows he should find some ice so that he can see in the morning. He knows that he’ll be in even more pain the next day if he doesn’t go to Doc Bryan for some aspirin. But the press of Nate against his side keeps him there as much as the quiet, almost peace, at the edge of the camp.

Nate sighs and Brad feels it before he hears the soft exhale. He happens to look down as Nate looks up and as their eyes meet the inches between them seem to close without either of them moving. They’ve done this before, one kiss, for a moment that both men pretended had never happened just a soon as it was over. When Brad’s been able to sleep though, he’s dreamt of doing it again, doing more for much longer, and his heart is triple timing its beat at the reality of the next second.

Nate’s hand is pushing Brad's head towards him as if Brad isn’t aching for the press of lips and limbs when suddenly the welcoming warmth of Nate’s breath so close to his mouth vanishes. Brad opens eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed to find Nate a safe distance away, looking to the west where there’s a flurry of activity and the sound of a humvee skidding to a halt.

Nate turns back, regret all over his face, and Brad catches his arm before he leaves. He squeezes tight enough to feel the twitching muscle underneath the layers of suit.

“Thank you,” says Brad.

Nate blinks in a mere second of confusion then he gives Brad a lopsided grin and turns away, his hand hooking into Brad’s until he has to let go.

Later, when Brad’s bunked down on an actual shitty mattress he dreams of closing those last few inches and kissing “thank you” over and over into dry full lips that part to inhale the flicks of his tongue and exhale “semper fidelis”.

END


End file.
